The Leather Bound Book
by Ereka Rayne
Summary: A.K.A."Spoiled Brat". Watson is moving into a home with Mary, but Sherlock wants to keep the doctor to himself for a bit longer. His genius plan backfires, in a deliciously hilarious way. WatsonSherlock, one-shot, slightly OOC, 2009 movieverse, M.


**The Leather-Bound Book**

**Gift fic** for Clarissa**. One shot, 2,834 words.**

**Based off of**: Sherlock Holmes **2009** **movie** universe

**Pairing:** John Watson/Sherlock Holmes

**Rating**: Mature for a short amount of slightly-graphic sexual activity

**Warnings**: Spoils the 2009 Sherlock Holmes movie. Has **VERY ****OOC** moments for both Watson and Sherlock, but I was begged to put this on FF anyways. I think this will horribly suck. Fic has **homosexuality**, mild mentioning of Sherlock's **drug abuse**, and **mild** foul British **expletives**. It's basically a **PWP without heavy porn. **Oh hell to the yes.

**Quick ****Summary**: Watson's moving out of Sherlock's home and into one with his fiancé…Sherlock doesn't want this to happen…but the future is inevitable.

Author's note: This is a gift fic for a good friend of mine on a Hetalia community. She loves the Sherlock Holmes stories and absolutely FANGASMED over the movie. I watched the movie and have read a few of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's brilliant books but haven't read them in the recent years, thus the HORRID ooc-ness. A bunch of my friends went agog and fangirled, so I guess I did _something_ right.. Much love though. Happy belated Valentine's Day to my girls and to all that read this!

****~*****~****

"….Are you _really_ moving in with her?" John Watson sighed in frustration, and delicately folded up his newspaper, eyes shut in affectionate annoyance. The Great Detective Sherlock Holmes could be _such _a whining brat sometimes.

"For the thousandth time, Sherlock, _yes_¸ I am moving in with my _wife_. It's what two married people do, but I'm sure even _you_ have deduced that." Sherlock's companion said in a calm voice, and then became silent, waiting for his brunet friend's smarmy response.

Nothing came. Eyes snapping open, Watson's eyes met with Holmes' calculating ones, which happened to be an inch away from his face. Watson scowled, tilting his chin away as he frowned. "You're planning something." The man accused, and his accusation was rightfully founded.

"Ee-_gad_, you know me _so well_, my dear Watson." Sherlock said as he stood up, eyebrows quirking in thought, voice both subtly sarcastic and conniving and thoughtful all at once.

Watson felt his heart sinking and his resolve waning already. "Absolutely not."

"I haven't even _said_ anything, Watson." Sherlock said in mild amusement, "What the devil have I done to you to make you jump to assumptions so quickly? Old boy, that's quite unprofessional."

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Sherlock's partner snorted. "You're a right one to talk about being _unprofessional_, Holmes. Like with the boat—"

"—That wasn't _me_, that was that raving lunatic wielding that monstrosity of a—"

"—Or with that poor chambermaid finding you rather indecent wearing nothing but a throw pillow and a pair of—"

"—In my defense, that was Irene's doing and she drugged me, I had no recollection of the activities prior to falling unconscious whatsoever." Holmes finished briskly, clearly enjoying himself. Watson grit his teeth.

"You enjoyed every bloody moment of everything, though, didn't you?" Watson rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Sherlock pulled up an armless chair and flipped it around, straddling it and placing his chin on the top of the tall back. "I did." He admitted after a moment, his expression and tone uncaring. _Especially tormenting you, Watson_

Watson stayed silent, but inside, he chuckled affectionately. He was going to miss Holmes, even how he _continued _to kill his dog…wait, _his dog_!

Directing his accusing gaze at the pseudo-innocent expression on Sherlock's face as the rather handsome man looked around his room, appearing fascinated.

"My dog."

Sherlock pointed behind them, shrugging a bit as he leaned around the chair to reach a small notebook. He scanned the pages, flipping through the book quickly as his tall parter got up to suspiciously crouch behind Sherlock.

"……..Why must you _always_ test your anesthetics on my dog, and why does this one have eye medicine in it?" The short mutt was on his side, dead still. Watson ran a hand along his dog's stomach, scratching his belly slightly. With a keening whine the stubby dog stirred to life, sitting up to lick his owner's hand.

Sherlock's vest and crisp shirt moved as he stretched his arms, yawning slightly. "Using them on humans would be even more unprofessional, would it not?" He quipped, snapping the book shut suddenly with a crisp CLACK. The genius stood up. The book was a complete list of everything Watson owned, in particular, some of the things that the man liked but wouldn't immediately notice...until a time like now. Those items had conveniently disappeared for this day…funny, that.

"Your logic is twisted," scoffs Watson, scratching the dog behind his ears before standing up himself.

Eyes widening, Sherlock slowly turned around. Did Watson catch a glimpse of the book? No, of course not. He could hear his friend's breathing and it was certainly from at least three feet away. He was also crouching on the floor, and Sherlock was reading the book carefully in front of himself, so the chance that Watson read his notebook without startling Sherlock were about, oh, one-point-zero-six-nine percent out of one hundred. Then again, Sherlock loved to toy with numbers and mystify and awe the people he was offering his services too, so that may have been a tad exaggerated.

Sherlock smiled inwardly. "Ah, but how many people do you see deciphering my 'twisted logic'?" He countered, "Save for yourself and Irene, on _certain_ occasions."

He remembered how she'd so connivingly slipped the drug into his drink and it made him shiver. Hn, maybe he should do that to Wa—

Watson snapped his fingers in front of Sherlock's eyes and the detective blinked a bit obnoxiously. "Yes?"

Checking his pocket watch while leaving his fingers up next to Sherlock's face, the doctor stared at it for a moment, debating something.

Sherlock, after glancing around the room for a moment, decided to stick his tongue out. Slowly..slowly…slowly…. Sherlock's neck strained and his tongue was almost a centimeter away from Watson's deliciously long digits before…

"Well then." Watson snapped his fingers and quickly moved his hand, which hit Holmes clean in the nose. Promptly falling back onto his seat, the tall man held his nose, and Watson turned to Sherlock, shaking his head before walking around him to go pick up a book.

Sherlock pouted. It wasn't a full blown pout that a whore would wear when attempting to gain a potential customer nor the one a child would wear when begging for a toy, but it was definitely Sherlock's pink and slightly chapped bottom lip protruding more then normal from his face.

Watson was wonderful at attempting at ignoring his partner, he was brilliant at pretending to, but he couldn't completely, he'd never been able to since the day he met him, and he was even weaker when they were in a relationship. Subtle smirk on his face, the doctor rolled his eyes as a complaint wafted to his ears from behind him.

"Watson, you brute!" The other man griped exaggeratedly, "I could not possibly be as brilliant of a detective without the services of my nose. It aids the process substantially, you know!" Sherlock's grey eyes pretended to widen and he set the damned book of his down on the table.

The doctor sighed. "Don't do eccentric things, then, Sherlock." Looking around, Watson crouched down to peek under a table, moving around dusty, ancient books and trinkets. Opening up a mahogany wooden chest, the brunet frowned before replacing the lid standing up. Wiping dust off his hands, the short-haired man turned to his mischievous friend. "…Sherlock, where are my things?" He inquired. It was rather funny that only a few days ago, his brass pocket watch with the insignia of a blooming rose on the front left corner along with his ivory fountain pen was in that exact wooden case, but now they were missing. The compass Watson received when serving in the military was also missing along with a diminutive but breathtakingly accurate glass globe he'd received as a gift.

The rather intelligent man was beginning to see a pattern. Every few feet, an item of his had been taken, and then the pattern had been randomized. It wasn't so huge or noticeable that it would be OBVIOUS it was missing, but they had a meaning for him, no matter how infinitesimal.

It didn't take long for him to piece it together, and he closed his eyes tightly before opening them again. "Sherlock, I know you have my things, and I want them back…" The brown-eyed man said softly, turning to watch his friend's back. Sherlock kept his body facing the opposite direction, and he watched the hubbub outside his dirtied window, used it as a distraction. Walking over slowly, he flipped the latch on the window and pushed it open, looking down into the smoggy street at something that fixed his concentration.

The stuff was all here, in this very room. After all, a detective was only as good as their opponent, and you had to know how to hide things in order to know how to find them. "Have your things?" The detective echoed, turning around. "I don't 'have your things', old boy. They're all here." He said, halfway honest.

His best friend shook his head slightly. "But you _relocated_ them, Holmes. I can't keep on playing these games…its—"

A large gust of wind blew into the room and papers rustled wildly, fragile trinkets on desks moved about and a layer of dust on Sherlock's furniture closest to the window disappeared.

The book on the table flipped open.

In the process of catching stray documents and pinning them down with paperweights as Sherlock closed the window and snatched papers that attempted to escape to the dirty beyond, Watson's eyes were drawn to the handwriting of his friend's…and a list. The worn pages rustled gently in their leather binding and he caught a few phrases. "Premeditated……so it is imperative to Watson……items are crucial…." What's this, now? Picking up the book, Watson flipped through it, eyes widening as he read some of what was within. _What…_

Sherlock turned around, a smarmy phrase on his tongue before he stopped cold. Watson was more deadly then the most gnarly of all potential adversaries because the man _knew_ just how to break the detective, ruin him, with a few words, or even just an expression. It was too late, the detective mused in panic, throat tightening as the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. No words would stop this, nothing would, and Sherlock Holmes was a damned man.

Watson's breathing grew slightly erratic as he continued to read, completely shocked. The glass had shattered, but then forced together again, a loud explosion with the ethereally beautiful sound of the material being forced together again. It all made sense, and it should have been obvious…Sherlock still wasn't…he'd never been…

"….Watson…" Sherlock respired quietly, feeling for once like a brute that had fallen and hit the earth, wax and feather wings melting in the intense glower of the sun. He was afraid to speak, for once in his life. This was one of the moments that would define the rest of his. He set his grey eyes in stone and looked at the doctor warily.

Sherlock had never gotten over the past, Watson had deduced…it didn't take a detective to understand _that_, just someone that wasn't _dense_ like him! The brunet doctor shut the worn book and looked to his friend, aggrieved. The past…

The detective's entrancing blue-grey eyes were haunted, and he contemplated the doctor's expression. "So….you've cracked the case, old boy." He chuckled rather brokenly. "Uncovered the truth….just what I'd expect from someone as smart as you."

Watson felt a soured feeling in his heart, the fact that Sherlock had been pining after him for all these years made him feel rather guilty, and he wished he could do _anything_ to make his friend smirk, do whatever he could to put the detective's heart at ease. Uncertainty welled within him as he locked eyes with Sherlock, who, like the bloodhound he was, picked up on its scent. Watson was a broken man, he just…he didn't know, that summed it up in an eggshell, he just didn't know, and Sherlock was the one who could shatter him or paste the pieces back together again.

Moving closer to the frozen doctor, Sherlock took in his appearance. Watson wasn't giving off the body language that Sherlock had expected, which was good, very good. Being Sherlock, he couldn't help but exploit the weakness. "Watson…" His pink lips parted slightly and he slowly licked them, dampening the chapped appendages while also giving off a seductive air. "I can't deduce why you always think of the worst outcome and apply it to life when it concerns our relationship."

Damned detective.

Watson sighed, resolve breaking. Sherlock was never one to beg—with his _words_, at least. The conniving man's body language was a huge factor that had always affected Watson: The way he sent a long, lingering gaze in your direction; the way he stretched out on a loveseat or chair lazily, long slender limbs haphazardly extended as he lost himself deep in thought; or the way that the light coloured lower lip of his pouted slightly when the detective was planning on getting his way on something, or when he was contemplating a case.

Oh, the doctor remembered the years ago, two after they'd met…Watson could no longer deny the chemistry between them, the raw, uncontrollable lightning that struck between the two. The doctor couldn't say he hated the feel of the detective, he never had, never would….never could.

Watson shut his dark eyes, frame strung tight and tense. He shivered ever so slightly, "You _know_ why we can't continue to do this, Sherlock…" the doctor whispered hoarsely, "We _can't_ continue to do this. We're both in our prime and it's time we started families and it's not _good_ for _you_ and—"

Sherlock's' breath was hot on his face. "What, pray tell, if I don't _care_ if it's not good for me? My dear doctor, you certainly know me well enough to know that _I_ decide what is good for _me_ and what is not."

Letting his eyes slowly open, the doctor met Sherlock's smoldering ones and they stared at each other for an intense moment, before both men moved toward each other and met in a hot, rough kiss. Teeth clashed painfully and lips were nicked, but Watson had lost the mental battle, and the detective had won. Panting lightly, Sherlock pulled away from Watson with a smirk on his face.

The doctor knew that this man was truly one of the smartest minds he'd ever met and _would_ meet in his life. It wasn't coincidental that the events had led to this. Sherlock was too good.

"Just this once," The taller man breathed, lips wet and bright crimson. Tongue running along his stinging lips, Watson sighed shakily, hand moving up to run through his hair. He had forgotten how delectable Sherlock had felt to him, forgotten the exhilarating thrill, the rush of doing something fantastically forbidden…forgotten how he'd truly felt.

"Just this once and I will never ask this of you again." The man spoke, moving closer to Watson. Shiver running down his spine, Watson dropped that small book and tugged Sherlock close, kissing those lips of his again.

Beautiful and rough, the kiss lasted for precious moments. Watson snaked his hand into Sherlock's locks as the other man groaned in welcome, smirking like a man who'd won million of pounds in one sitting. Hands moving to grip the tails of Watson's vest, he tugged him closer, and the doctor deepened the kiss.

The actions the most damning of punishments yet a saving grace, Watson let his guards drop. Deep within, he knew that Mary was a phenomenal woman but she'd never make him feel just like Sherlock Holmes would.

Both men kissed and touched like blind men miraculously seeing for the first time, groping at the life that they'd never had the luck of seeing before. Gasps and grunts escaped both men and as they collapsed on Sherlock's bed, Watson on top of him, the doctor began to shake. The brave, composed man watched his aroused friend who watched him hover above and fight his inner battle.

Hot and fast and rough and sweet, the two men made love in the sanctity of Sherlock's bedroom. Watson's grunts and groans echoed throughout the room as he held Sherlock as close as he could, chests meeting in delicious friction as the doctor gripped his friend's slick thighs. The bed softly creaked, muffled by the feather and straw filling of the mattress, as the oak bedposts rocked against the wood of the floor. Both men tried many positions, but Watson loved best the one where Sherlock sat in his lap and they rocked together tightly, bodies clothed in moonlight as both men intimately pressed together. The doctor loved the foreplay, the friction, the passion, but he loved most feeling impossibly pleasurable heat envelop him as he made love to Sherlock and again until moonlight shone into the bedroom, peeking over the curtains.

The glowing light shone on both men's skin, making it shine with an ethereal handsomeness, and Sherlock gazed at Watson who was firmly encased within the detective's muscular arms, content and sated, but at the same time, not at all. He wouldn't be able to bear watching John Watson move into a home with Mary Morstan. It wouldn't feel right without having the Doctor a few feet away from him, providing a source of comfort, insight, and a partner to banter with...among other things. He let his long digits trail along Watson's side, circling along a stray mole on a toned hip. The doctor was dozing, and Sherlock knew that this was always how it was meant to be.

But fate and lady luck were incessantly cruel…and Sherlock even enjoyed the sweet torture of having to get his John Watson back into his grasp.

It was only a matter of time.


End file.
